


The Lie

by shara



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shara/pseuds/shara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porn. And then more porn. And a few lines of dialogue so I can pretend it’s a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lie

Wilson palms his ass with hot, pliant hands, spreads the cheeks and—in one smooth, swift movement— _licks_ his way along the crease, tongue slick and cold and hot, all at once, against his skin.

“Nghhrh,” House says, twisting his fingers into the sheets, incapable of stilling the little shiver that snakes up his spine.

He doesn’t turn his head to look at Wilson but he can still see Wilson’s smile. He feels the open curve of Wilson’s lips as Wilson moves down again, trailing his tongue more slowly this time, lingering over House’s opening, tongue probing hot and slick and wet. House tries not to push back against it; instead, he squeezes his eyelids shut, hard enough that he sees colors explode behind them, feels them reverberate inside him.

Wilson takes his time, licks and kisses and even takes a bit of the skin on House’s hip between his teeth, a small bitemark that House wants to see blossom against his skin, dark and red and undeniable.

It seems to take an eternity, but finally, _finally_ , House feels the end of Wilson’s finger, wet and cold with lube, push into him. House’s muscles clench at the entrance and Wilson’s finger stills, patient and waiting, and House has to stop too, to will himself to relax, steady his breathing to match Wilson’s own puffs of breath, warm against his back. Then Wilson pushes in again, and it feels like _nothing_ , and then _something_ , and then _not nearly enough_.

Wilson moves up House’s body, trails his tongue up House’s sweaty back ( _moving his finger out, then in_ ). House can feel the bed dip on his right as Wilson uses his elbow to keep his balance; Wilson’s finger twists inside him. House has no idea ( _out_ ) how he can keep his finger at the same angle as he moves, but if there’s anything he’s learned in the past few months, it’s that Wilson can bend in ways that House has ( _in_ ) never considered. House doesn’t open his eyes until Wilson’s tongue reaches his face, tracing its way ( _out_ ) along House’s smooth jaw line (he had shaved for the occasion; grinned at himself in the mirror that morning, knowing what was coming). Wilson’s eyes are dark, ( _in_ ) the half-light shines on his wet, soft lips. He leans in to kiss House, has to crane his neck a little: it’s a question. House knows where that tongue has been (part of him is still a doctor, tirelessly cataloguing lists of bacteria, symptoms, and consequences), but he kisses back anyway, in answer, and feels Wilson’s lips curve against his in a quick smile.

Wilson moves back and away, withdraws his finger, and straddles House properly. House feels the warmth of his legs on either side of him, hears the rustle of sheets as Wilson feels around for the lube, the tearing of a condom wrapper. A moment, and then Wilson moves again, stretches out over House, braces one elbow against the mattress, and, using his other hand as a guide, pushes himself slowly, carefully, in.

House inhales sharply, closes his eyes against the burning pain of it, thinks of skin, and muscle, and force per square inch, until Wilson withdraws just a little, and _there, that’s it,_ and House’s mind wipes blissfully blank, pleasure coursing through him. He feels Wilson’s lips at his shoulder, wet tongue and a light scraping of teeth, Wilson’s hot breath against his own overheated skin. Wilson thrusts once, twice, more, until House can’t take it anymore, he has to push back. He starts lifting himself on his elbows, pushing up his hips, trying to force his knees to take the weight. His leg twinges, but he dismisses it, because everything in his life has been a mixture of _pleasureandpain_ and right now the pleasure’s overpowering the pain, so _yeah_ , he tells himself, he can do this.

Wilson anticipates his movements, shifts his weight to allow House some leverage, braces his arms against the mattress instead of House’s body, pauses a moment for both of them. But House growls low in his throat in warning, so he starts up again, and House has to duck his head to the mattress and clench his shoulders to stop from crashing into the headboard. He grins at his own surprise, doesn’t even realize until he feels cool air lapping at his teeth, that he’s grinning like a maniac, high on nothing, breath coming out ragged and hoarse, almost like laughter, almost like sobs. Every time Wilson drives in, House’s vision burns white-hot, and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear blood rushing in his ears.

Wilson’s hand has reached around his waist and is pumping, pumping at his cock. And House is almost there, almost, almost—when, for no reason at all, he has a sudden burst of memory—of going to a symphony a few months ago—two tickets— _Saw an ad in the paper_ , Wilson telling him over breakfast—Beethoven’s baddest and best—the frenzy of the percussion—louder, _louder_ —strings stretching to the limit—House hears the piano in his head—rising, _rising_ —as he comes, and all he sees in front of his eyes is music, music, music.

*

Wilson has gone to throw out the crumpled tissues and gather the sticky washcloth into a pile with the discarded clothes on the floor. House lies on the bed, very still, head pillowed on his arms, breathing cool air deeply. There is a faint humming in his ears. The bed dips beside him a moment later.

“Hey,” Wilson says quietly. “You okay?”

House feels Wilson's breath on his face. And it’s only then that he opens his eyes.

Wilson is lying on his side, blinking at him owlishly, eyes widening with concern. House blinks back. His heart rate has stumbled back to something resembling normal, but he’s still breathing a little too quickly. He pulls away from Wilson’ gaze and rolls over to stare at the ceiling. This seems to satisfy Wilson, who turns onto his back too, settling deeper into his pillow.

House listens for a few moments to the quiet, then says, “I lied.”

Wilson looks over at him, confused. “What?” He sounds a little out of breath, and House almost smiles.  
“Bonnie never said you were bad in bed,” he says.

For a moment, there’s nothing, but House knows that Wilson’s figuring it out, putting two and two together. He looks over at him just in time to see Wilson smile.

“Oh god,” says House, because Wilson starts to laugh, easy and light, crinkling the corners of his eyes. And it’s his poker-winning laugh, his paper-football-touchdown laugh, his I’m-the-only-one-who-gets-your-dirty-jokes laugh.

“Yes!” Wilson yells, just for good measure, pumping his fists into the air above him, looking like some dumb thirteen-year-old. House glares at him, figuring he should feel insulted, but he can’t keep it up. He starts to grin too: Wilson’s laughter is contagious, and yeah, House will admit it, he really _is_ that good.

 


End file.
